


end of the line

by rjtonamen



Category: Music RPF
Genre: Concerts, F/M, Love at First Sight, Meet-Cute, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 09:18:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19206436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjtonamen/pseuds/rjtonamen
Summary: she's never been to a concert alone before.inspired by (and loosely based on) a true story.





	end of the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monica.](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=monica.).



She’s never been to a concert alone before. No one on this train knows how excited she is, how nervous she is, and no one would care even if they did. They’d think she were a crazy person if she tried to tell them. One of those passengers that everyone side-eyes and shifts away from. But it’s so _quiet,_ in a wrong-feeling way, without a friend to share the hype.

She tweets in all-caps, though it’s not quite the same.

> “I AM ON MY WAYNDBDJDB I CANT BELIEVE THIS HAPPENINGFB”

A few of her friends like it, but no one replies. The quiet continues.

Her stop arrives more quickly than she expects, and suddenly, here she is. A massive poster of her favorite artists hangs above her. She looks up at them like she’ll look at the real thing in -- she checks her watch -- exactly two hours. Tears fill her eyes, but she wipes them away angrily. _Not yet,_ she commands herself.

First: time to kill. The doors don’t open for another hour, and with her ticket in hand, she doesn’t see the point of waiting in the long line to get in first. Instead, she decides to walk a lap around the stadium to see if she can spot the tour buses. If she can spot the artists or, better yet, _meet_ them… well, she might die on the spot, but at least she’ll die happy.

She doesn’t have to walk far -- a quarter of the way around, she sees them. Not _them_ -them, but their buses. She snaps a picture and tweets it with a generic caption, but again, it’s not the same. The area is deserted. No artists, no crew, no other fans. Silent.

She wants to scream just to make sure her vocal cords still work, but she doesn’t want to summon the venue’s security. She’ll have plenty of opportunity to scream in -- another glance at the watch -- exactly one hour and fifty-six minutes.

Shit.

Maybe she _should_ wait in that long line. At least then she has a chance at some human interaction, a chance to talk to someone who is as excited and nervous as she is. She walks the long way around for lack of anything better to do, and when she reaches the front again, the line has nearly doubled. She sighs, pushes her hair out of her face, and parks herself at the end of it.

In front of her, a group of girls who look barely out of middle school squeal and chatter about nothing. At twenty-three, she already feels like a tired old woman compared to them. They’re not exactly her ideal conversational partners, but --

Someone taps her on the shoulder before she can finish the thought.

“Excuse me,” a voice says.

She turns halfway around, ready to respond, but her voice dies in her throat. In front of her is possibly the most beautiful human being she has ever seen. He looks vaguely familiar, the kind of face you’d see on a magazine cover or a semi-viral selfie with thirty thousand retweets. He’s smiling at her, his hand still half-raised from where he touched her shoulder. After a beat that hopefully isn’t as long as it feels in her head, she smiles back.

“Are you the end of the line?” he asks.

After all this time wishing for someone to talk to, her voice refuses to cooperate now. _Yes,_ she thinks, _I am. Say yes. It’s not that hard. Come on._ But all she can manage is a nod.

“Great, thanks,” he says. Then he looks over his shoulder to add, “Yep, we’re in the right place.”

And for the first time, she notices that he’s not alone. A trio of grinning girls, all about her own age -- and his -- join him in line and immediately continue where their conversation left off. He doesn’t say much, but he nods and smiles along, not sparing her a second glance.

Well. So much for that.

The remaining thirty-nine minutes before the doors open pass slowly. She’s aware of the gorgeous guy behind her; she tries hard not to listen to every word out of his mouth, but she hears most of it anyway.

Maybe he’ll have the seat next to her, and she can hear him sing along. She almost laughs aloud at the thought -- with her luck, he’ll be in one of the nosebleed balconies on the far opposite side from her, and she’ll never see him again. It would be the first time in her life she’d feel an ounce of regret for springing for floor seats.

She loses him and his friends in the crowd as soon as they get into the stadium, but she’s already past caring. It doesn’t matter. She’s not here to see _him._ She’s here to see _them._

She buys a t-shirt, even though she told herself she wouldn’t. She spent enough on the tickets. But besides being lured by the limited-edition tour designs, she’s thankful for the brief human interaction the transaction provides.

With no one to take her picture at the photo op booth, she snaps a selfie with one of the posters. She doesn’t tweet it, but she does glance at her feed -- still nothing.

By the time she finds her seat, there are only forty-seven minutes left til showtime. It will probably start late, she knows; they usually do. But still. It’s so close, she can feel it. The tears sneak up on her again, but again she fights them back. Not _yet._ When the lights go down, maybe. When they come out on stage.

She half-heartedly glances around for the guy from the line, but he’s nowhere to be found. Typical.

Her seat-neighbor seems to be alone, too, and they chat idly for awhile. The other woman is a super-fan, too, since she was little, and she’s already been to several of the artists’ shows before. “At one show, right after their first album came out,” she starts, “I met --”

The woman doesn’t get a chance to finish, because just then, the lights drop, and the stadium fills with screams, cheers, and applause.

She hears a shout from the stage, the first few notes of a song, and there they are. Right in front of her. She’s only about six rows back; she knew they’d be close, but God, they’re so close. Close enough that they might even see her dancing -- if this were some kind of cheesy Wattpad fanfiction.

As soon as the first song starts for real, though, she’s gone. She doesn’t care anymore if the tears fall. She sings along and dances like her life depends on it.

Three songs in, something jolts her out of her zone. There’s a commotion a few rows ahead of her -- shouting, and not the normal concert-screaming. No one ahead of her is looking at the stage anymore.

She turns to the woman next to her. “What the fuck?”

“I think it’s a fight,” the woman says, straining to see.

And again she thinks: _What the fuck?_ She’d looked at tickets up there, where the fight is happening; they’d paid at least double what she had. And now they’re about to get kicked out.

As if reading her mind, three burly security guards vault over the barricades, over the first two rows of seats, into the middle of the fray. She wants to focus on the concert, but she can’t look away as people scatter out of security’s way. Even one of the performers is watching now. _Is that what it takes to get noticed?_

When the metaphorical smoke clears, several people have been hauled out of the venue, and nearly an entire row stand empty ahead of her. She stands, frozen in shock, wheels turning in her head. Finally, her seat-neighbor pushes her gently and says, “Girl, _go!_ ”

Thirty seconds later, she’s in the third row, out of breath but glowing with the thrill. She’s a little sorry to have left the woman, but if she thought she was close before… she almost feels like she could reach out and touch the stage now.

“Hey!” her new seat-neighbor says, sounding as out-of-breath as she feels. “End of the line?”

It takes her a second to realize who he is. She can hardly see his face with the strobe lights, but that voice -- she recognizes the voice. This time, at least, she thinks quickly enough to come up with a response that’s more than a nod. “Not anymore,” she laughs.

“Thank God for that fight, eh? I was just a few rows back over there --” he points across the aisle, “-- but wow, this is a thousand times better. And I’m next to you again.”

 _And thank God for strobe lights,_ she thinks. Her face is already heating up. “Did you ditch your friends?”

“My -- oh, those girls with me in line? I don’t know them. They were in my Uber pool. I’m glad to be rid of them. They wouldn’t stop talking.” He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “Like I’m doing now, I guess. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind. This is my least-favorite song,” she says. It’s a lie, and not a very convincing one, but… he’s so pretty. And his voice is so nice. And _of course_ he smells good, too. Of course he does.

He introduces himself, and so does she. They shake hands. His is warm, and she can only hope hers isn’t too cold. But he’s still smiling at her, so she must be doing something right.

“Hey,” he says again. “We have all this space.”

It’s true -- half the row is still empty. It’s almost like their own private concert. “Yeah?” she prompts.

“Want to dance?”

Her voice dries up again. Like his first question, she can only answer with a nod. He doesn’t seem to mind; he grins, takes her hand, and gently guides her into position. They’re angled so they can both see the stage, and though it makes things a little awkward, she appreciates his effort.

As amazing as he looks… and sounds… and smells… she really isn’t here to see him.

But when the artists sing her name in the lyrics of one of their older songs, and he sings along and squeezes her hand at the same time, the emotion is almost too much. “I’m okay,” she assures him through tears.

“If you insist,” he replies. He spins her once, and she laughs.

Between songs, he leans in to say, low, into her ear, “I like your laugh.”

 _I like when you make me laugh,_ she wants to say, but the next song starts before she can manage it. The next song -- her favorite song. And here she is, dancing with a guy she just met who she’s already fallen half in-love with, tears still leaking from her eyes a little bit, hearing the song live.

This might be the best night of her life.

The rest of the show passes in a blur, and before she knows it, it’s over. She’s exhausted from dancing, throat dry from scream-singing along to her favorites, high on adrenaline. And he’s still holding her hand.

“Maybe we should wait out this crowd,” he suggests, looking past her at the rush of people heading for the exits.

“Seems like a good idea,” she says.

They sit, and the seats are close enough together that their shoulders and knees are touching. To say she doesn’t mind would be an understatement. She’s never been the type for one-night stands; she’s never taken a random guy home from a concert before.

But then again, she’s never been to a concert alone before, either.

“Are you from the area?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and names a city a couple of hours’ drive from them. “I’m just in town for the weekend. What about you?”

Damn. She knew there had to be a catch. “Yeah. Born and raised.”

Which starts a lighthearted argument about which city is better, which leads into more easy small talk, which weaves in and out of playful banter and any excuse for a light touch of the hand or knee or face.

“We should probably go,” she says at last. The stadium is almost empty, and one of the security guards who remained after the earlier debacle is side-eyeing them. Janitors have already started sweeping up around them. If they stay much longer, they’re going to get kicked out.

“Yeah. Can I walk you out?”

“Of course.”

He offers her his arm like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman, and it takes everything in her not to literally swoon like some kind of old-fashioned lady. _How is he real?_

They walk out in silence, both smiling in their separate thoughts. She’s already replaying the night in her head, again and again, slowing down on the best parts, committing everything to long-term memory. He’s thinking of… well, who knows what.

Once they get outside, though, he stops. “Hey. Maybe this is weird to say after knowing each other for, uh --” he glances at his watch, “-- an hour and a half, but… You’re really beautiful. Funny. Passionate. And… I like you. Do you think I could, like… get your number?”

She blushes, but laughs, too. After all their easy conversation, he’s so adorably awkward. Maybe that’s why she’s comfortable with him, after only an hour and a half; she’s awkward enough herself. Honestly, she’s a little baffled that this gorgeous stranger seems to like her so much -- but she tries not to think about that.

She gives her number and gets his in return.

She wants to do something crazy. She wants to kiss him, take him home -- or at least tell him that she likes him, too. She hopes he’s not, like, a murderer or something. She’s seen the Ted Bundy Tapes.

“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” she blurts.

“I’m not,” he laughs. “I swear I’m not. Are you?”

“I’m not, either.”

And now they’re both laughing. He takes her hand again, spins her again. But when he pulls her close again, he’s serious. “End of the line, isn’t it?” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“Well. We’re probably not going to see each other again.”

She swallows hard. “Maybe at the next concert.”

“Maybe. And I’ll text you, for sure. But…”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” She squeezes his hand. “This was fun, though. Even if it really is the end of the line, it was fun while it lasted.” She wants to say it again, repeat the sentences until they feel true.

“If we’re not going to see each other again. We could…” He trails off, but his eyes flick down to her lips and back, almost imperceptible, and his meaning is clear enough.

With her free hand, she touches his cheek and draws him down to her. He lays his hand on her back and pulls her in the rest of the way. The kiss is gentle, sweet, not the start to a one-night stand but the end to a maybe-date. He tastes as good as he smells, and his lips are as soft as they looked. They both sigh like they’ve been waiting for this for -- well, she doesn’t want to look at her watch _now,_ but they’ve been waiting long enough.

When she pulls away, she does so reluctantly. “I need to get home,” she says, and it comes out a whisper. “I can’t miss the last train.”

“Text me when you get home. So I know you’re safe.”

“Safe from what?” she teases. “Strangers who kiss me in parking lots?”

In answer, he kisses her again, harder, for longer, dipping her back slightly like they’re in a movie. “Like that?” he asks into her ear.

“Exactly like that.”

On the train, she opens Twitter again. It’s still quiet, but it’s a nice quiet. Calming. She’s had plenty of human interaction now. She scrolls idly, killing time, her headphones blasting songs from the concert.

And then her heart stops.

One of the artists she’s just seen, her favorite, love of her life, has just tweeted.

> “Wild night. Met our good friend --” and here he tags another celebrity who must have been in the audience, though she didn’t see him, “-- watched a fight, and saw a couple dancing in the parking lot after the show. If we could get that last one at every venue...”

He closes with a heart emoji, very unlike him, and for half a beat she wonders if someone else tweeted from his account. But it doesn’t matter. He saw her -- she thinks he saw her -- or someone did. It’s not quite the same as meeting him, but she still feels like she could drop dead at that moment, and die happy.

This really is the best night of her life.

Maybe she should go to every concert alone.


End file.
